


Like Mother, Like Son

by ivynights (incantatem)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incantatem/pseuds/ivynights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur brings Eames back home to meet his mom. Crack ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Mother, Like Son

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/3434.html?thread=3566954#t3566954) km prompt.

They’ve been together for a full six months now and Eames has learned that, while it’s often good to push Arthur out of his overly structured comfort zone, it’s also necessary to let him keep a few of his anal eccentricities intact. Therefore, their life together has a few strict rules. There are two closets – one they share and one for Arthur’s suits. Arthur gets full control over the alarm clock and Eames is not to set the wake up call to the latin pop music station or to 15 minutes later than planned for fear of no sex at all for the rest of the _week_. And, finally, Eames is not to mess with Arthur’s phone.

This last one might bother a more paranoid man; however, Eames feels secure that Arthur knows no other devastatingly handsome and rakishly charming British forgers whom he might mess about with on the side. Also, Arthur rarely uses his phone for anything other than work.

Point being - it takes a very specific set of circumstances for Eames to answer Arthur’s phone. They are such: Eames has got Arthur’s hands tied together with one of his precious Armani ties – and is preventing him from bitching about it by giving him a fantastic, enthusiastic, mind-blowing blowjob. Arthur’s nearly at orgasm when the phone rings.

“You want to get that, love?” Eames says slyly, pulling off Arthur’s cock and wiping saliva off his chin.

“No, Eames. It’s just Ariadne. I was expecting her to call earlier.”

“Oh, so you’ll want to chat then!”

“Just- turn it off! Tell her to call back later! _Eames_.”

Eames loves it when he gets all incoherent.

He reaches out and scoops Arthur’s phone off the night table, sliding it up to his ear and answering in a cheery tone. “Arthur’s phone! I’m afraid he can’t come and talk right now. He’s a bit… _indisposed_ at the moment.” Eames punctures this last bit with a stroke down Arthur's cock and Arthur bites back a moan, not wanting the sound to transfer.

But the voice that responds in his ear definitely isn’t Ariadne. Female, American, sharp.

“Who am I?” Eames responds, “Who is this?”

Arthur’s glazed over gaze turns acute.

“Cynthia? Who’s Cynthia?”

“EAMES!” comes Arthur’s mortified whisper, “That’s my mother!” He jolts forward, trying to reach out to grab the phone but forgetting his hands are tied.

Well. Shit.

“Yes, he’s right here,” Eames says. He raises an eyebrow at Arthur warily and holds the phone up to Arthur’s ear.

“Hi, Mom,” Arthur says, sounding more apprehensive that Eames has ever heard him be before a highly dangerous extraction gig.

.

Once Arthur gets off the phone in what has to have been one of the most awkward conversations he’s had with his mother, by anyone’s standards, his cheeks are still pink but he looks resigned, not panicked.

A good sign, Eames thinks.

“We didn’t just inadvertently out you to your mother, did we?” Eames asks, a bit nervously.

“You. Not we! _You_ , Eames,” says Arthur, “But no. It’s not something we ever really talk about but she already knew.”

“Oh, good.”

Now it’s Arthur who looks wary.

“And what else did she say?” asks Eames.

“She wants to meet you. What do you think about this?”

Eames isn’t sure if Arthur’s expecting him to try and stave off the big introduction or to jump into it with over the top enthusiasm. Truthfully, he’s slightly nervous but his inclinations lie with the latter. As much as Eames likes to flirt and make fun, his relationship with Arthur is probably the most important thing in his life. He hasn’t exactly told Arthur yet but, if he gets his way, he’s going nowhere. Ever.

“I would love to meet your mother, Arthur. Sincerely.”

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“I could never! Mothers love me.”

“You said that about men with toupees last job and yet our mark still slapped you.”

“How was I to know he had suddenly lost every shred of his sense of humor? Besides, his subconscious was already getting edgy and _that_ wasn’t my fault.”

“Whatever, Eames. We’re flying to the U.S. next weekend. Pack your bag.”

“ _Our_ bag, darling.”

They packed.

.

Just outside the door, Arthur pauses and grips one of Eames’ wrists tightly.

“Eames, just- please be good. Don’t, I don’t know, scandalize her or anything.”

“I will be on my best behavior, darling. I promise,” Eames says solemnly. Arthur watches his gaze for a moment while Eames looks patiently back. He seems satisfied by Eames’ intentions because he moves his hand down to Eames’ fingers and interlocks them through his own before ringing the bell.

The woman who answers the door is clearly Arthur’s mother. Even if he hadn’t already known this was Cynthia, Eames would have been able to pick her out of a room.

Cynthia is a petite and trim woman of around 60 years. Her hair is dark and graying and her sharp eyes are gray-blue (Eames wonders if Arthur got his own brown ones from his wayward father). She wears her hair pulled back into a bun, not a strand out of place, classy and severe, a description that could also be applied to the style of her blouse and pants.

(Eames is amusingly reminded of that Professor McGonagall lady from the Potter movie that came on TV a few nights ago. He decides not to mention this to either one of his dining companions.)

“You must be Eames,” Cynthia says.

“And you Cynthia. It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. You have a lovely son.” And then Eames _kisses her hand_ and he can feel Arthur tensing up beside him but Eames totally knows what he’s doing. Mothers love him!

Cynthia raises an eyebrow slightly and one corner of her lips quirks up in amusement and her mannerisms are so like her son’s in that second that Eames is momentarily overwhelmed by the resemblance.

Then she steps back, holding the door open for her son and his boyfriend and Eames feels like he’s passed test one.

Cynthia’s home isn’t large but it’s tastefully decorated, with muted paint colors and carefully selected paintings to adorn the walls.

By occupation, she’s a French teacher on the high school level. Her bookshelves feature selections on European art and design. She has both a piano and a violin set up in the living room.

The refrigerator features what looks to be an ancient magnet made out of dried pasta and googly eyes. The whole piece is covered in blue marker scribble.

Cynthia catches Eames smiling at it and smiles as well. “A pre-school memento,” she explains.

“You still have that up, Mom? Why?” Arthur’s voice is almost hilariously plaintive.

“A token of your imagination, sweetheart,” says Cynthia, and she looks evilly amused at Arthur’s cringing face.

He quite likes this woman, Eames decides.

“Yes, he’s got quite an imagination, our Arthur,” Eames says lightly, but when Cynthia looks elsewhere he catches Arthur’s eyes and grins, their private joke hanging in the air between them.

After the house tour, Cynthia ushers them into the dining room while she finishes getting dinner on the table.

Though he’d never admit to it, there are a few butterflies fluttering around in Eames’ stomach. He knows how important this evening is to Arthur, and to himself as well, and he really doesn’t want to screw it up.

The butterflies dissipate as soon as the conversation starts rolling. They discuss Europe and joke about the British-French relationship and Eames compliments Cynthia's cooking profusely and it all goes almost extraordinarily smoothly.

(Eames told Arthur on the plane ride over that his mother was sure to fall in love with his charm. His rakish, British charm, to be precise. Arthur just shook his head in despair, but Eames noted that he never actually disagreed.)

It’s Eames’ job to people-watch, to study their minute quirks and pick up on their unique qualities. Arthur and Cynthia mirror each other in the oddest little ways, Eames notes. Both cut their food in a slightly unusual manner. Their speech is precise and can come off almost cold to one who isn’t used to picking up on their little tells. They chew their food meticulously and wouldn’t dream of speaking with their mouths full. They have a rare but wicked sense of humor.

After dessert, the conversation starts to wind down. Eames slides a hand onto Arthur’s knee under the table and Arthur just flicks him a little smile and doesn't shake his hand off. A very good sign, Eames thinks.

Eames decides to give the family a moment. “Well, if you two will excuse me for a second, I’m off to the loo,” he says and slips off in the direction Cynthia pointed out to him earlier.

He has no doubt that he’s the topic of discussion back in the dining room. He just wonders how the talk’s going. Eames thinks the evening has been going rather well, but Cynthia is just as hard to read as Arthur and one can never be too sure.

As he walks back to the room, he lingers in the living room for a moment. There are a carefully organized selection of photographs on the mantle, school photos and candids framed in dark wood. He views them from left to right, watching Arthur grow from giggling baby to serious college graduate. Just Arthur, Arthur and Cynthia together, Arthur with a couple of dark-haired girls who look like they could be cousins, Arthur as a toddler at the beach, with sand on his cheek and a bucket in hand.

Arthur has no siblings, this is territory they covered a couple of months ago, when one of Eames’ many no-good brothers came out of the woodwork, groveling for money. Eames has also paid attention enough to pick up on the fact that a father was never in the picture.

Looking at the photos, Eames feels a strange sense of responsibility settle in his gut. Cynthia watched over Arthur for all of these years; in a sense, it’s Eames’ turn now. Arthur would probably punch him if he knew Eames was thinking like that, but it’s a responsibility Eames _wants_ to take on.

He thinks he should send Cynthia a picture of him and Arthur together. It seems sad that the photo display ends at graduation, even if that was the point where Arthur’s daily activities descended into the sort Cynthia couldn’t properly explain in legal conversation.

Two arms come around Eames’ back, slipping under his own arms and across his middle.

“Admiring my youthful figure?” Arthur’s voice in his ear.

“Of course, Arthur. Who knew you’d look so fetching in a cowboy getup?”

“Oh, that’s just wrong, Eames. That was Halloween. I was _nine_.”

“Well, you’re twenty-nine now. Perhaps we could introduce some assless chaps in the bedroom?”

“You’re sick, Eames.”

“Perhaps. But you love me anyway.”

“Yeah. I do.”

Eames turns around to face Arthur, who has soft eyes and a sweet little smile on his face.

“I take it things went well with your mum?”

“Yeah. She likes you.”

“Oho. She said that, did she?” Eames slides his own arms around Arthur’s back.

Arthur cuts his gaze away and then brings it back with a look of fond exasperation.

“What?”

“She said you were charming. _Charming_ , okay? You win.”

Eames’ grin is blinding. “What did I tell you? Basically I’m the best boyfriend ever. Admit it.”

“Alright, alright, don’t get cocky now.”

“Well, it’s not everyday that mothers who are first introduced to their son’s gay significant other whilst said significant other is giving their son a stupendous blowjob still manage to get said mother on their good side.”

Arthur looks scandalized. “Shh! Be quiet! She could still hear you!”

“Make me,” says Eames, giving Arthur his best charming smolder.

Arthur’s eyes slit in determination and he smirks a little. “Fine. I will.”

.

Arthur gets his revenge late that evening.

They're in the guest room. Arthur ties Eames' hands to the headboard using ribbon he found among the wrapping paper selection in the closet.

"Kinky _and_ resourceful," Eames says, "My kind of man."

"Now, Eames," Arthur says, unbuckling Eames' pants with one hand while he unzips his own with the other. "My mother is _right down the hall_. You make one sound - _one_ \- and I'll stop and leave you here like this."

"Why do you have to be so cruel to me, darling?"

"You love it."

"I do."

Eames is doing an admirable job at keeping quiet. He's doing so well, in fact, that Arthur's the noisy one in this scenario. Arthur hums, and smacks his lips, and in so focused on giving admittedly brilliant head and continuously reminding Eames to keep being quiet _or else_ , that he sort of forgets to be quiet himself.

Eames really hates to interrupt the motion, but he's just about to warn Arthur about his increasing volume when he hears the dreaded sound. Creaks on the floors as feet walk down the hall toward them. _Cynthia_.

The footsteps pause outside of their door. Oh, no.

Arthur ceases all movement, Eames still in his mouth, which is just _torture_.

Suddenly there is a soft thud, like something light hitting the floor, and then a small scraping sound, as Eames sees the edge of a slipper clad foot slide something under their door. He doesn’t have a great view from his bed-bound vantage point but he can still make out what they are. “ _Condoms_ ,” Eames breathes, giving up the silent pretense.

After a beat, the footsteps disappear down the hallway.

Arthur’s mouth slides off Eames’ cock with an obscene pop. His eyes are wide and horrified.

Eames dissolves into helpless laughter. “It’s like your family motto. _Always be prepared._ Are you sure your mother wasn’t a point woman in another lifetime?”

Arthur’s cheeks are flushed bright red as he scurries across the floor and picks up the offending objects. He glares around at everything in view and throws the condoms at Eames in a quick flash, two landing on the bed and one on Eames’ stomach.

“What do you say, Arthur,” says Eames, still laughing uncontrollably, “Like mother, like son, eh?”

.

Cynthia invites them back for the holidays with a smile but she pays for them to stay in a hotel room.


End file.
